


Touching

by Latia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latia/pseuds/Latia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's amazing what details stick out to you in the moment of death. Spilled gin. Black feathers. A cold, still hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touching

In.  
Out.  
  
The act of breathing shouldn't have been such a conscious labor, but considering that she's wearing most of herself on the front of her dress, perhaps she could be forgiven certain abnormalities. She almost laughs at that-- _abnormalities._  It comes out more of a rasp.   
  
Her throat is so dry.  
  
In.  
Out.  
  
It's getting harder to see. And yet, through the blurring of her vision she can make out certain things in almost disturbingly lucid detail. A lone olive floating innocently in the spilled gin. A few trace feathers, black and almost certainly corvid, floating on a playful breeze right above her head. A hand--  
  
Whose hand?  
  
Slowly, painfully slow, she crooks her neck to the left (in out. in out). When the blade had punctured his chest he had thrown out his hands to catch himself, instinctive, useless. His right hand lays parallel at his side, palm open and face down.  
  
His hand--hands, she's guessing, she can only see the one--they're surprisingly big. The palm is wide yet the fingers are slim, a lucky turn of genetics for a pianist. It must have been a sight to see him playing.  
  
Why is she thinking of that?  
  
In. Out.  
  
It takes a moment to realize that her hand is slowly, stiffly moving. She winces, breath ( _in out in out_ ) catching in her throat at the sudden stab (ha ha.) of pain. It hurts. Everything hurts. The act of blinking is getting to be exhausting, her eyelids just hanging half shut in defeat. And yet, for whatever reason, there is nothing more she wants in this idiot's excuse for a universe than to touch his hand. A single finger would be enough, a brush, just one reminder that he was here and her friend, that he had been breathing and chattering and laughing, that he was once warm and alive and so damn foolish gullible tactless compassionate kind thoughtful stupid stupid stupid...just...  
  
(In...)  
  
Just one touch, she thinks as her fingers twitch, spangles of pain shuddering through her as she swivels on her side. So far. How is he so far away? He was barely a yard away, a foot, a handful of inches...  
  
(Out. Out. Out--)  
  
"J-"  
  


 

  
  
"Rose."

"Rose?"  
  
"Helloooo, Earth to Lalonde."  
  
Rose blinked once, twice. A sideways stare looked back at her from behind crooked glasses. Grass tickled her cheek.  
  
"Oh, forgive me. I was re...thinking."  
  
"About what?"  
   
Rose looked skywards. "Plot points for my latest project." He snorted. "I was thinking of something more..." She idly broke a blade of grass apart, watching the remains drift away on the wind. "More soft. A gentler story."  
  
John laughed. "Rose, can you even  _do_  gentle?" He reached up to fix his glasses, only to make a startled noise when she caught his wrist.  
  
"Can I? You tell me."  
  
"Uh-." She flipped his hand to face the sun, using both hands to keep his still. Slowly, her thumbs began to knead his palm in soft circles. John opened his mouth, looking like he might have had more to say, but he quickly seemed to decide he was okay shutting up. Soon he was smiling, limp with contentedness as she doted on him.  
  
"Sometimes you're way too nice to me," he finally said. "I don't know if it's some weird reverse-psychology type gambit or you really mean it. Either way, I guess it's..."  
  
"Touching."  
  
"...yeah, I guess."  
  
She hooked her fingers around his. "Maybe I just keep you around because you have nice hands."  
  
"But you said last week that you just keep me around because I can cook."  
  
"True. And you do give fairly acceptable back massages, and have made a suitably comfortable pillow on occasion." She sighed. "You will have to accept the fact that you are a person composed of many wonderful charming qualities that I love and unfailingly adore."  
  
"...okay, but..." She politely ignored his blush. "Why the hands thing, though?"  
  
The air between them suddenly went tense. Rose looked down, growing solemn. "John, I...I have to confess something to you, but I'm not sure if you'd be comfortable hearing it."  
  
"What? What is it?"  
  
"John...I've never told you..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The truth is...

...you're hand-some."  
  
Silence.  
  
"....rrrrrrrOOOOOOOOOOOOOSEEEEEEEEEEEEE."   
  
"I warned you." She gave a small shriek of laughter as he pulled her into a half-hug, half headbutt. "Don't ever say I don't warn you."  
  
"You are terrible. Terr-i-ble."  
  
"I can live with that," she chuckled.   
  
Between their bodies, their fingers locked tight around each other. It would be a while before they let go.


End file.
